He will hurt me.
That is just a truth I know and feel.
As plainly as I know he loves me.
He loves me. And I love him.
And he will hurt me.

In the story of my life
I never build a life with him.
He doesn’t pick me up from work when my car is in the shop.
We don’t bicker over names of dogs or babies together.
He is not the person I fall into when my tragedies inevitably come.
Although there is nothing more exciting to me
than pretending that is how the story will go.

It’s lovely to pretend I feel desired by him
and I don’t see his one eye scanning the room.
That I trust him to carry my heart in his.
That I trust him at all.
No.
He will be the tragedy,
if we never stop pretending.
He will be what sends me to my knees wailing for God and mercy.
This will come when I’m 35 and can’t look the other way anymore.
It will be the classic tale of a younger, more fun, more desirable girl who he just couldn’t stay away from
and it will absolutely ruin me.

It twist my soul into darkness and leave burns all over my skin.
I will cry at night for years and maybe never fully let it leave me.
And I will honestly be able to say
I knew all along.
I understand how people find themselves there,
I really do.
Because the only thing harder than staying is leaving.

And I’m okay with living in dreamland tonight,
I accept that this is pretend
if it means I get to be the person
who knows how his last book reminded him of his father.
That I get to know which way his body twitches at night.
That I get to watch him push his glasses up on his nose
when he talks on the phone.
Yes, dreamland is a magical place
and I think I’ll stay
just a little bit longer.